


sweet, sweet burn of sun and summer wind

by orphan_account



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Canon-Compliant, M/M, Pre-Series, Romance, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23544706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: For Thomas and Philip, it isn’t so much love as lust at first sight; all the same, it brings them together, time and again, for as long as summer lasts.It’s not perfect, yet it’s the best they’ve had, and when it ends, they know it won’t be for want of trying.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Duke of Crowborough
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	sweet, sweet burn of sun and summer wind

**Author's Note:**

> A little take on pre-series Thomas and Philip, because they are precious.
> 
> Title from the song 'Summerfling' - K.D. Lang

It began with a Season, as these things tended to do.

It, too, began with a dinner; this time, it was at Grantham House.

Thomas wasn’t sure if he was the one who noticed _him,_ first, though he supposed it didn’t quite matter.

The night would end the same way: a quick distant fuck in the bedchamber of some Lord or another, then Thomas would bid his goodnight with a ‘my lord’ or ‘your grace’ or ‘sir’ - oh, how they had _loved_ hearing that, after fucking, or being fucked, by such a servant.

And they would never meet again.

Thomas was fine with that - _more_ than fine, in fact; one could do worse.

This time, it was different.

“I want to see you again,” the Duke said to Thomas, after.

Thomas was getting dressed when he had said it, so he paused. “What?”

“Is it so strange a proposition?” the Duke asked, with laughter in his voice, in his eyes.

“I don’t even know your name,” Thomas said, before adding, “Your Grace.”

The Duke rose from the bed and kissed Thomas on the mouth, briefly, and it was the most innocent thing they had done that night. “My name is Philip,” he said, smiling. “Now you know.”

“So?”

Thomas was aware, all too well, of his impertinence, though he had a feeling the Duke would find this more amusing than offensive.

“You did imply, rather, that knowing my name was a prerequisite of our continued correspondence,” the Duke said, as though _that_ was a sufficient explanation.

“They don’t typically ask to see me again.”

“Then I’m pleased to know I’m far from typical.”

“It’s not necessarily a compliment,” Thomas said, unable to resist a smirk of his own.

“If I choose to perceive it as such, regardless, does it matter?”

What a peculiar one. “I suppose not.”

“Is that an agreement I hear, Thomas?”

It was the first time the Duke had used his name. Thomas oughtn’t to be flattered by such a thing, but he _was;_ the drinks had gone to his head, surely.

“If that’s how you’d like to take it, Your Grace.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.”

* * *

The next time Thomas saw the Duke, it was at his London residence.

It was, frankly, bizarre.

Thomas did wonder what the Duke’s excuse to his servants would be - to explain Thomas’s presence - then he realised, just as he entered the mansion, that they were alone.

“Where’s everyone?”

“Would you believe me if I said I’d dismissed the entire House for the afternoon, just for you?”

“I’d say you did it more for yourself than me.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be wrong,” the Duke said, shrugging. “Though for a face like yours I really would do _anything_.”

And it was almost charming. Almost. If not for the leer hanging off of Philip’s mouth.

 _Philip_ , Thomas toyed with the name in his mind. He decided that he liked it.

Amidst silk sheets and whispered sweet nothings, that afternoon went by, all too quickly.

* * *

For two people who had met under circumstances so salacious, they did plenty of chaste things.

In between lazy afternoon fucks whenever Thomas managed to slip away from Grantham House, Philip showed him his collections of books, paintings, poetries; he told Thomas grand stories of Gods amongst legends: Greek, Chinese, Persian; once, he even read to Thomas his favourite passages, and it was _almost_ romantic. Almost.

Thomas told him stories of his own, too, though ones not nearly as fanciful; he spoke of his work with the Crawleys, made _fun_ of them, even, half-expecting Philip to disapprove, yet he surprised Thomas, once again, by laughing along with him.

He wondered if there would come a day when Philip would cease to amaze him.

Certainly not before the summer’s end.

Thomas didn’t know how it’d happened - how they’d gone from wordless sex to _telling each other stories_ \- all the same, it brought them together, time and time again.

* * *

It was an evening, though a little melancholy, like any other of theirs; warm and humid made all the more so by their want of each other, and perhaps such a thing would be ever uncomfortable in other circumstances, yet in Philip’s arms, hidden from the world, it was _almost_ perfect.

Their moments were full of almosts - almost charming, almost romantic, almost perfect; now, Thomas realised they were so, for their parting was terribly imminent with the cease of the Season, and it was if not a damper on the snippets of hours they had managed to steal among days and days of summer’s haze.

Philip knew as such, for he asked a thing almost _unthinkable_ \- there it was again, the almost - on this last evening they had together. “Dine with me.”

“What?”

“The Criterion, surely you’ve heard.”

“Of course I have, but…”

But they’d never so much as _stepped_ beyond these four walls of Philip’s chamber together.

There was a first time for everything, Thomas supposed, but _this_ …

This was different.

He liked the thought of it, _too much,_ and Thomas knew, whenever he did like something a little more than he should, it would all come back to haunt him in the very worst way -

“Don’t you want to live a little?”

Philip and his power of persuasion…

Thomas would certainly miss that. Miss _him._

So, he allowed himself just _one_ more thing. God knows he’d had far more than he should’ve had in these weeks past.

“Dinner it is.”


End file.
